Now for the plagiarism by Coleman. To do my friend justice, I must certainly say that the last two lines of the original Greek bear some resemblance to the second verse of the English: "Oh, Thady Rann, the Isle of Man I left and sail'd for you; I'm very ill-luck'd all night to be duck'd, For keeping my promise true. Oh, Thady, your bride cannot sleep by your side, Go to bed to another lady; I must lie in the dark with a whale or a shark, The story of which I spoke is this: Dr. Moir has one of the most stout and stalwart fists of any man in Musselburg. Passing through the High Street of Auld Reekie one day, he was jogged by a Yankee, who, on Moir's demanding an apology, snapped his fingers in his face. The Doctor, in a trice, floored his man. Sydney Smith who was passing by (and who told me the story), turned to the American; and, whispering in his ear from Gregory, Νυν δε σε ΜΟΙΡ' εδάμασσεν, joined the Doctor, and both walked away, laughing heartily; the one at the punch which he had given to the Yankee, and the other at the pun with which he had so readily followed it up. LXXXI. He who whistles to perfection is not to be despised ! Why, quotha? Because he hath made himself master of one science. LXXXII. We poor Papists eat so much fish, that it would be indeed no miracle if we had fins. So says Erasmus. LXXXIII. I have seen an old blanket look well in the sunbeam. LXXXIV. Man is a twofold creature: one-half he exhibits to the world, and the other to himself. [Here ends the Table-Talk of the late John Boyle, and certainly the world has never received a richer treasure in a smaller space. Boyle's reading was immense, and to the learning of the bookman, he added (what is rarely to be found conjoined with it) an intimate and extensive knowledge of mankind in all its phases. He had conversed with the highest, and mingled with the most humble orders of society. By many he was loved— by all he was admired; and should the time soon arrive, as I fondly hope it will, when his grateful countrymen shall erect monuments of brass to his fame, even they will be found less durable than his works, and future ages will contemplate with reverence and awe, Cork the cradle of the modern Crichton. T.C.C. Literary Executor of the late John Boyle, Esq.] 177 A NIGHT WITH THE DEIPNOSOPHIST CLUB. Scene. The Deipnosophist Club Room. A long apartment wainscotted with black oak, and lighted from the centre of the ceiling by an antique bronze lamp; In bookcases ascending to half the height of the room are huge tomes, magnificently bound, and lettered on the backs with inscriptions in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Spanish, Italian, French, German, Irish, and Chaldee. Busts of the members ranged around on pedestals of white marble; their pictures by Maclise suspended over the bookcases, with the mottos of each elegantly painted on the frames. Costly prints thrown carelessly about the floor, and mixed up with sundry manuscripts, books of poetry, albums, and fragments of Moore's Lalla Rookh, which appears to have been torn up for appropriate occasions-a lady's bonnet and shawl; several pairs of boxing gloves; cigar boxes, and two cases of duelling pistols. Twenty-four Irish shilalahs, a black silk mask, and twelve dozen champagne flasks. In the centre of the room is placed a large oaken round table, whereat is discovered sitting with magisterial ease and dignity JOHN BOYLE, Esq., Editor of the Freeholder; glasses, decanters, cigars, filberts, corkscrews, jars of whiskey, pipes, and an unlimited supply of various wines, &c. &c. Time, 1823. BOYLE (drinking off a glass of wine) Hilloah! Pleasant times these, and no mistake! A M blazing sea-coal fire, ambrosial wine, the best Havannahs, and good books; what more need I to complete my Paradise? Our Freeholder goes on swimmingly; every body reads our libels, laughs with them, and is delighted; our circulation has increased, is increasing, and cannot be diminished; and our contributors are the best set of fellows in the wide world. Where we shall stop, Heaven only knows, but The Cork Freeholder is maintaining its ground right nobly as the monarch of periodicals. From the eastern to the western hemisphere, from Cork to Kamschatka, from Mallow to the Malabar Islands, from Dingle dee Couch to the falls of Niagara, our little gemlike periodical is published, and sold, and praised as never periodical was praised before. Old gentlemen buy us for our wisdom, and young ones for our wit; elderly ladies for our beautiful poetry, and bright-eyed young ones for our tales and romances; politicians study us for our sound Tory and constitutional views, and men of letters for our general excellence. In fine, there is but one book in the world beyond us. (Filling out a glass of sparkling Burgundy.) Here's success, then, to The Cork Freeholder and its editor the illustrious Boyle! May it always be as brilliant as this wine, and love and poetry glitter in its pages! Amen! O'Callaghan, you ruffian, where are you ? Enter O'CALLAGHAN. Has Captain Sabertash arrived yet? You needn't speak-your look says no. Shew the captain in the moment he comes. Vanish-levant, I say! [Exit O'CALLAGHAN. (Taking up a book.) Sabertash is an especial favourite of mine; and he deserves to be so, for he is that most rare of all characters, a military man, who unites a perfect knowledge of the drawing-room, with the most thorough intimacy with books. He has shown me a manuscript volume on Conversation which is in every particular a jewel of a book, and sparkles no less with wit than with sound practical sense. By the by, what is this I find between the leaves? A song! and a pretty one too, upon my life! I wish I had a Jew's harp to accompany me while I try to sing it, or one of the Disraelis, at least, to whistle a symphony for me. I could warble like a lark once, but my voice begins to crack. Here goes, however :— A Song. Invest my head with fragrant rose Distend my veins with purple juice, A first-rate sentiment! What next? Thus crowned with Paphian myrtle I |